The eye of the screen
you lean over the round glass of a small table
in the living room, a lake
in which your own ugliness will drown.
you don't feel sorry. your ugliness is your principle.
under the glass a childhood is laid out in a circle,
a numerical sequence of layers on a cake.
the reflection is the axis of a vehicle, a ritual's object,
in each iris it guards one of each of you, blackmailing.
you raise your head
and disappear from your eyes
which automatically buttress the t.v., still live
with an afterimage of a woman in white. it could be an ad for Tampax,
if blood had not the color of blood,
which means it is not blood at all
for true blood has the color of the toilet cleaning gel.
beside, the woman is fallen in the mud, now she could get saved
only by one of those detergents
which overpower the double challenge of washing.
again you lean over your principle.
the ugliness comes from within and to within it returns,
weighing the bowels so it can sink easier.
the drowning in the reflection releases from the tissue,
you become flat like the t.v.,
in relation to it.
© translated by Boris Gregorić